


Thirteen

by Art3misiA



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark fic, F/F, Murder, Obsession, Revenge, The Slytherin Cabal's Twistmas 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28236345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Art3misiA/pseuds/Art3misiA
Summary: They took her love from her. They thought they would get away with it. But they were wrong.She had a list, and was checking it twice. Thirteen would pay the ultimate price.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 48
Collections: Twistmas 2020 - A Dark Remix Xmas Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Twistmas2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Twistmas2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Making a list and checking it twice
> 
> Thanks to the admins of The Slytherin Cabal and Dramione Fanfiction Forum for running Twistmas - one of my favourite fests of the year!
> 
> Thank you also to my beta, Anne_Ammons, who tirelessly goes through my fics and helps make them into something I can confidently yeet into the world.

* * *

  
“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Somebody grab him!”

That had been the first pivotal action in her life; one that she began to regret the moment the words escaped her lips. 

Her words had been borne of self-preservation, of fear - the man, the _thing_ that had overshadowed the wizarding world over the last year, had finally made himself known to them. His presence was no longer a rumour, no longer just something happening outside the walls of Hogwarts that she could pretend wasn’t there; he was real and he would spare no one unless he got what he wanted: Harry Potter.

That choice had seen her ostracised for a long time following the Final Battle. Almost everyone who was on the side of the light had pegged her for a Voldemort supporter, which she felt was grossly unfair. She’d never supported him. Privately, she thought he was insane, despite the ideals he espoused that seemed to attract her family and many others who were members of the most ancient and powerful wizarding families.

Before the night of the battle, she’d believed in blood purity and maintaining the heritage of the oldest lines. She had despised Mudbloods just as much as many other Purebloods, having been taught that magic was a privilege those of such lowly blood didn’t deserve to wield. However, she’d never believed that Mudbloods were _stealing_ magic from Purebloods; that was simply ludicrous, with no evidence to support the claim.

After the dust of the final battle and Voldemort’s defeat, she spent a lonely, emotionally overwhelming, and traumatic summer holed up in Parkinson Manor. She had barely any contact with her former housemates. Like many of them, her whole family had been placed on house arrest for months while they were investigated as part of the sweeping inquiry that had taken place. Their home, vaults and other properties were raided by Aurors several times, as they searched for Dark artifacts and any evidence that would out the Parkinsons as Voldemort sympathisers; and they were all interrogated on more than one occasion, including with Veritaserum. 

Of course, her family had been smart enough to stay largely neutral, never outwardly saying or doing anything that might indicate they sympathised with the Dark Lord and his supporters. The Parkinsons had always known how to hedge their bets, unlike some of the other Ancient and Noble Houses: the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Carrows, the Yaxleys, and the Lestranges, for example. All the more outwardly purist houses had been subject to heavy penalties for their allegiances, with vaults emptied to pay reparations, with many members stripped of their titles and imprisoned in Azkaban. So, Pansy considered the inconveniences of the summer just that, given her family’s fate could have been much worse.

Returning to Hogwarts was something she’d warred with herself over, right up until the cutoff date for confirming attendance. One the one hand, if she showed her face, she’d be opening herself up to scorn and rejection; and no doubt, the occasional hex or curse. But on the other hand, not returning to school would be as good as admitting the whispers and rumours about her family’s allegiances were true; and cowardly, besides.

Self-preservation was one thing, but hiding away in fear was another thing entirely. Slytherins did not _cower,_ and they did not back down from adversity. They found a way around the problem and carried on, no matter what it took. Having told herself this, Pansy had steeled herself, attached her attendance confirmation form to her owl’s leg, and sent him on his way before she could change her mind.

Returning to the castle hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared, nor yet did it go as smoothly as she’d hoped. As expected, she’d been widely ostracised by most of the students. Few Slytherins had returned, and even fewer of those who had been part of her circle of friends. 

Draco had come back, as had Astoria, but Daphne had elected to complete her last year at Beauxbatons. Millie, having had a massive falling out with her family after refusing to enter into an arranged marriage, had decided she would travel. The fact she’d been disowned was of little consequence to the young witch; she had her own personal vaults which would allow her to live comfortably, even without the Bulstrode fortunes. Theo had run away from his last name and father’s actions altogether, moving to Italy with Blaise.

The first few months were very lonely for Pansy, and countless times, she had questioned her choice in coming back. Perhaps it would have been better if she’d just stayed away. However, it wasn’t like she would have many opportunities outside of school, anyway, not with the Parkinson name still under scrutiny.

By second term, she’d fallen into a routine. She kept to herself and stayed out of trouble. However, she had no idea how completely her circumstances would soon change. 

She’d been in the newly restored library, looking for a text on mastery-level potions. Preoccupied with scanning the stacks above her eyeline, she suddenly collided with something warm and soft. 

“Watch it, Parkinson!”

She glanced over in surprise to see Hermione Granger glaring daggers at her. 

Of all the people to run into... 

“I- I’m sorry,” she said quietly, looking down at her shoes and fisting the hem of her cardigan in her hands. “I was looking for a copy of _Potions for Aspiring Masters,_ and wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“This copy?” Granger extended the text she held in her hand, an eyebrow raised. “I’ve just finished and was about to re-shelve it.”

“Yes, thank you.” Pansy took the volume cautiously, suspicious of the other witch’s seemingly magnanimous response.

“You’re welcome.”

Granger was halfway down the aisle when Pansy called to her. The curly haired witch turned around, her expression slightly mistrusting, but not hostile. Pansy took it as a positive sign and forged ahead.

“I’m sorry.”

“Pardon?” Granger furrowed her brow in confusion.

“I’m sorry. For all the horrible things I said to you over the years. And Potter, and Weasley. I’m sorry I was such an awful person. I’m sorry I tried to get everyone to hand Potter over to He Who Must Not Be Named. I’m s-”

“Voldemort.”

Pansy gasped and almost dropped the book she was holding as her heartbeat sped up at the mention of the tyrant’s name.

“His name has no power any more. He’s gone. Say his name, and say it without fear. It’s the only way we can defeat the shadow he left behind.”

Granger’s voice was so unexpectedly kind that, to her mortification, Pansy suddenly burst into tears. She’d barely had a kind word spoken to her since September first, and to hear a whole sentence of words that were not cruel shook her to her core.

“Hey, it’s all right. You’re safe here. He can’t hurt any of us any more, and nor can the last of his followers.” 

The reassuring touch of Granger’s hand on her arm only caused Pansy to sob harder. She clutched the book to her chest as if it were a lifeline and turned to face the shelves, attempting to hide her shame from the Gryffindor before her. 

“Parkinson- what’s _really_ the matter?”

Hiccupping and wiping her face, Pansy attempted to speak. “What- what makes you think it’s- anything, Granger?”

“Because no one sobs like that in response to someone else telling them they’re safe. Well, actually, they _do,_ but it’s never the only reason. There’s always another thing going on for them, and it all compounds, which causes a sense of being overwhelmed. Then everything just dominoes, and-”

“You’re still a know-it-all, Granger, even when you’re being nice,” Pansy snorted through her tears.

Granger huffed, but a quick glance at her face reassured Pansy that she hadn’t taken offense to the remark.

“I’m sorry. I do try to not go on, but sometimes I just can’t help it.” She paused, looking at Pansy with what seemed to be genuine concern. “I’m serious though. What else is going on for you? Why don’t you come up to the Head’s dorm with me, have a cup of tea?”

The offer was enough to incite a fresh flood of tears. Pansy could only nod and whisper, “Thank you.”

Together, they walked through the corridors. Fortunately, it was late and not many people were about, which meant no one noticed Pansy’s tear-stained, puffy face. They reached a panelled oak door and Granger tapped her wand against it in a complicated series of movements. It swung inwards and the curly-haired witch motioned for Pansy to enter. 

She gasped at the sight of the tastefully decorated room. The walls were similar to the door, but in a darker hue; rich velvet curtains in royal purple hung from the giant picture windows; and a set of comfy-looking armchairs and sofas were scattered throughout the room, in a shade of green so dark they almost looked black. In front of the roaring fire was a large coffee table.

“Mipsy.”

An elf popped into the room. “Miss Granger calls for Mipsy?”

“Hello, Mipsy. I’m sorry to trouble you, but can I have a tea service for two, please? And perhaps some sandwiches?”

“Mispy will bring these things right away.” The elf bowed and disappeared.

Pansy turned to Granger with her brow raised high. “I thought you were determined to free all elves from enslavement. Didn’t you start that spew thing a few years ago? Do you mean to tell me you get your own personal house elf, and you’re not trying to send her away?”

Granger reddened. “First of all, it’s not _spew,_ it’s S.P.E.W. Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. And no, I’m not trying to free them all any longer, only the ones who are abused by their masters. Mipsy isn’t my personal elf, she’s assigned to the Head’s quarters. I still think having elves serve witches and wizards is distasteful, but I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

Pansy giggled. “That must be a first,” she said.

“Yes, well. Being on the front lines of a war will do that to you,” Granger sighed. 

Mipsy returned with a tray bearing the tea and a plate of sandwiches. “Will Miss Granger be liking anything else?”

“No, thank you, Mipsy." She suddenly turned to Pansy. “Is there anything you’d like? I’m sorry, I should have asked before.”

Pansy shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“That will be all, Mipsy. Thank you so much for the tea and sandwiches.” 

With a final bow, the elf disappeared once again.

“Let’s sit down and you can tell me about what’s on your mind,” Granger said. “If you want to, that is. No pressure. We can just sit here in front of the fire, or talk about other things, if you like, or-”

“You’re doing it again, Granger.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She plopped down onto the sofa and lifted the teapot. “How do you take your tea?”

“Half a teaspoon of sugar and just a splash of milk, please.” Pansy took a seat beside Granger, settling carefully into the cushions. It was just as comfortable as it looked.

She waited while the other witch prepared the drinks, taking the offered cup and saucer with a nod of thanks, and delicately lifted the steaming cup to her lips. It was _heavenly._ Freshly brewed, with the milk and sugar precisely as she liked it. Instantly, she felt her spirits lift.

“Have a sandwich,” Granger urged. “Mipsy’s sandwiches are beyond compare.”

Pansy looked at the plate and was surprised by the rumble in her stomach. When had she last eaten? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps this morning? Or had it been yesterday? Either way, she realised that she was ravenous. 

However, being the polite and restrained pureblood witch she was, Pansy stopped herself from snatching up several at once and cramming them into her mouth; instead she chose one and took a polite nibble from a corner. Granger was right, they _were_ excellent. Before she knew it, she had consumed several more and finished her tea.

“Feeling a bit better?” Granger asked with a small smile.

“Yes, thank you. I was quite hungry, actually. I hadn’t realised how long it had been since I last ate.”

“Another cup?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She was just about to drink from the newly filled cup when the door opened and Ernie McMillian walked in.

“Alright, Hermione?” he asked. His eyes slid over to Pansy and his expression immediately shuttered.

“We’re just having a wee chat, Ernie. I know it’s an imposition, but would you mind if we had the common room to ourselves?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” McMillian grunted. He hoisted his satchel higher on his shoulder, and crossed the room to one of three internal doors, before disappearing behind it.

Granger turned back to Pansy with a smile, and seemed to immediately understand the worry that must have shown on her face. 

“He won’t say anything to anybody about you being here. Anything that goes on in the Head's quarters is held in strict confidence.”

“He didn’t look very happy to see me, though. Maybe I should just go—” she started to set her teacup down on the table, but Granger stopped her. 

“Please don’t feel like you have to leave. I’d really like it if you would stay a bit longer. I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m Head Girl. It’s my responsibility to look out for the welfare of _all_ the students in the castle. And-” she offered a gentle smile. “-I can see you’re struggling. Please let me help you if I can, Parkinson.”

Pansy felt her lip start to tremble and tears well in her eyes at the continued show of kindness. It was far more than she deserved, but she was so grateful for it, especially coming from the woman she had tormented and mocked. She wondered if she might be able to show the same magnanimity, if their roles were reversed. In any event, she wasn’t in any state to keep up her usual aloof pretences.

“Please, call me Pansy,” she offered.

“Pansy, then. Talk to me. I’ll do what I can to get you through whatever’s going on.” She offered a box of tissues, and Pansy took one, dabbing at her eyes. 

She scrunched the tissue in her hand, took a deep breath, and began to talk. 

* * *

**_Three years later - December_ **

Pansy woke up slowly. The sun was streaming through a gap in the curtains, filling their room with soft light. She rolled onto her side and was almost suffocated by a very large pile of curly hair.

“Ugh! Your hair is a bloody menace, love.”

Hermione stirred and turned to face Pansy. “Don’t insult my hair! You know it’s sensitive; it’ll take offense.”

“And what if I say I don’t care if I upset it?”

“The follicles will worm their way into my brain, and convince me to hold out on you for the rest of the week. But they’ll also tell me to parade around naked in front of you at every opportunity.”

“Tease,” Pansy pouted.

“You love it.” Hermione smiled wickedly and leaned in as if to give her a kiss, but pulled away at the last minute. “Oh oh, I can feel the follicles invading, They’re taking over. Sorry, Pans, but they’re compelling me to get up…”

“No, wait-” she huffed in annoyance. Damn cheeky witch! “Fine. I’m sorry I insulted your hair.”

Hermione rolled back into bed with a smirk and pulled Pansy towards her. “I forgive you… but my hair hasn’t decided whether it will or not, yet.”

Pansy smiled. “Oh, it will.”

She leaned in and captured Hermione’s lips with her own, while her hand slowly caressed the other woman’s shoulder then traced her collarbone. She let her fingers hover briefly, then slid them slowly down Hermione’s sternum and turned her wrist so she could cup one of her breasts. Pansy gave the flesh a firm squeeze then pinched the nipple between her fingers, rolling it back and forth until it hardened, eliciting a breathy moan.

Hermione responded by kissing Pansy harder, flicking her tongue against Pansy’s lips, demanding entrance to her mouth. She let her lips part and their tongues met, soft and gentle. Hermione’s hand reached up to take Pansy’s breast, and threw her leg over her hip, pulling their bodies flush against each other.

Pansy took the opportunity to push her thigh up between Hermione’s legs, rubbing it against her centre. Hermione moaned louder and thrust her hips forward, seeking more friction. Pansy lifted Hermione’s leg higher on her hip, allowing the other woman to press her wet heat harder against Pansy’s thigh while Pansy used a hand to stimulate her clit. Hermione’s breathy moans increased and became more ragged as she came closer to her release.

“Come for me, love,” Pansy whispered, and with a guttural cry, Hermione tossed her head back and shuddered as her climax rushed upon her, while Pansy lavished her neck and face with soft kisses.

Hermione opened her eyes, her cheeks still flushed, and grinned wickedly. “My hair forgives you,” she said. 

Pushing Pansy onto her back, she straddled her and ran her hands teasingly up Pansy’s thighs until they reached the hem of her knickers. Hermione hooked her fingers around the band and slowly slid the fabric down Pansy’s legs.

Then she started kissing her way down her neck, while her hands pushed Pansy’s singlet top up her ribs until her breasts popped free. Hermione took a nipple into her mouth and bit down gently, making Pansy keen, then released it with a small pop. She blew air over the wet skin and watched it pebble, then switched her attentions to the other nipple while Pansy thrust her hips upwards, desperately seeking but not finding any friction.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“Please, what?” 

Pansy glared down at Hermione, who was wearing a decidedly Slytherin-like smirk. “You know what!”

“I do, but I want to hear you say it.”

“I need to feel you on my pussy.”

Hermione chuckled. “As the lady desires.” 

She kissed her way slowly down Pansy’s torso, focusing first on the inside of one thigh and then the other, but never quite reaching the goal. Pansy whined in frustration, and Hermione finally took pity on her. Her tongue darted out to taste the other woman, and Pansy’s hips bucked in response.

Hermione slid a finger, then two, into Pansy’s slick heat as she used her tongue to caress her clit. Pansy cried out in pleasure, her hands fisting in the wild curls she’d grumbled about earlier, as she rushed towards her own release. Moments later, she was coming undone under Hermione’s ministrations.

Pansy lay panting, as Hermione kissed her way back up to pull her into an embrace. They rested in comfortable silence until Hermione sighed and said, “I suppose we’d better get up.” 

Pansy made small noises of protest, but Hermione was right, and besides, she was hungry. They untangled themselves from each other and the rumpled bed sheets, and began to get ready for the day.

“It’s a good thing I work from home, or I’d be in trouble by now with all the times you make me late getting out of bed,” Hermione grumbled good naturedly.

“If you’d like to face a stern talking-to, I can pretend to be your boss,” Pansy offered with a lascivious grin. “I’ll call you into my office to discuss the issue of your persistent tardiness and even discipline you, if you’d like.”

Hermione’s eyes darkened with desire before she laughed and gave Pansy a playful swat on the arse. “Now who’s being a tease?”

“I can’t let you have all the fun, now can I?”

“You’re incorrigible, Pansy Parkinson, and I am going to go and have a shower.”

“I guess that means I’m on breakfast and coffee duty,” Pansy sighed dramatically as she pulled a strapless dress over her naked form. “One day, I’ll get the first shower and you’ll be barefoot in the kitchen.”

Hermione’s laugh drifted out of the bathroom as Pansy headed to their small but bright kitchen. She put a pan on the stove and, when it was hot, directed eggs and bacon onto its surface using her wand. Then she switched on their coffee maker -- something Hermione had insisted on when they moved into their flat -- and set out plates, cutlery and mugs.

While she waited, Pansy stared out the small window that overlooked their garden, musing on how they had got to this point. From that first night, sitting with Granger in the Head’s quarters, she’d never in her wildest dreams have imagined she’d end up here.

_She’d poured her heart out to the feisty Gryffindor, finding that once she started speaking, she couldn’t stop. She described her guilt after trying to hand Potter over; the lonely, frightening summer -the shame and fear that came with the raids and interrogations; how much she’d struggled with her family’s name being so severely tainted; and the agonising feelings of isolation and rejection she’d been feeling ever since she returned to Hogwarts._

_Accustomed to being loved and admired -- worshipped, even -- her fall from grace had been especially jarring. Even Draco and Astoria were hardly available to her; they were engaged and totally wrapped up in each other. Pansy felt that the only thing that would be more pathetic than her current pariah status would be the ‘unwanted third wheel’ label she would have been given had she tried._

_Compounding it all was her struggle with the beliefs she had been raised with. The war had left her questioning everything about Pureblood society, customs and prejudices. On the one hand, she felt she’d been misled her whole life; but on the other hand, if she rejected what she had always believed to be true, she would be letting go of the one familiar, comforting thing she had left._

_Hermione had simply listened. Her face was open and kind, never judgmental. After Pansy had stripped her soul bare and the last syllable fell from her lips, Granger didn’t try to offer advice or meaningless platitudes. Instead, she took Pansy’s hand in hers and said, “Any time you want to talk -- about_ **_anything_ ** _\-- I’ll be here.”_

_At first, Pansy avoided seeking the Head Girl out, not wanting to seem needy. But after a seventh year student had unleashed a particularly cruel torrent of words in her direction during one of their joint classes, she found herself at the door to the Head’s quarters, huddled on the floor, silent tears pouring down her face._

_Granger arrived some time later, took one look at Pansy, and hustled her inside, where she plied the distraught Slytherin with tea and sweet cakes._

_After that, Pansy gave up worrying about what Granger really thought about her and started to spend more time in the curly-haired witch’s company. To her surprise, the two quickly became fast friends. The rest of the school year passed in a blur, and before she knew it, Pansy was graduating along with the other seventh and eighth-years._

_Following graduation, their relationship developed naturally, without any fanfare. They fell easily across the line from friends to lovers so gradually that no one, even they, really knew for sure when the transition had occurred._

“What are you thinking about, love?” 

Pansy hummed as Hermione’s arms slipped about her waist, peppering gentle kisses along her bare shoulder.

“I know it’s cliché, but I was thinking about how happy I am,” she replied. “If anyone had told me at the beginning of eighth year that I would eventually have a successful fashion business _and_ be shacked up with none other than _Hermione Granger,_ I’d have laughed my head off and then had them committed to the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“Admittedly, I’d have done exactly the same,” Hermione chuckled. 

The coffee chose that point in time to hiss as hot liquid began to pour into the jug below the spout, making them both jump and thoroughly spoiling the moment. Pansy then realised the breakfast was also starting to burn, and hurriedly removed the pan from the stovetop, conjuring a trivet and resting it on the counter.

“It’s okay. I like the burnt bits,” Hermione grinned, kissing Pansy on the nose.

“That’s because you burn everything. You’re used to the taste of charcoal.” Pansy wrinkled her nose. “This is why I keep saying we should get a house elf. Neither of us can cook to save ourselves, and eating out gets boring after a while.”

Hermione’s expression slipped into one of abject horror. _“Pansy,_ how could you say such a thing? I thought you loved eating out. At least, that’s what you were moaning last night while you had your head between my legs.”

Pansy felt a rush of heat to her core and knew a flush was creeping up her neck. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” she laughed. “Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.” 

She flicked her wand and the breakfast began dishing itself onto the plates she had set out earlier. Another flick lifted the jug of hot coffee, pouring it into the mugs.

“Will we go Christmas shopping later?” Hermione asked.

Pansy groaned. “But there’ll be so many people!”

“Come on Pans, please?” She gave a beseeching expression that Pansy could never resist. 

“Fine, fine. Maybe we could go for lunch first? There’s that new café that opened last week in Diagon; we haven’t tried it yet.”

“Sounds good to me.”

* * *

Several hours later, the pair were seated in the new café, close to the back of the room, with a clear view of the door and wider surrounds. Even several years after the end of the war, Hermione was still cautious about being in a position where she didn’t have a full view of the room, and more importantly, the doorways. While it wasn’t a foolproof way of spotting a potential threat, the habit was hard to break _._

Since it had just opened, the small eatery was rather busy. As much as she was enjoying her meal, Pansy knew the crowd was making Hermione a bit nervous. The two of them used glamours when they went out in public in order to retain some anonymity, but as with her habit of strategically positioning themselves in any room, it wasn’t infallible. With the right spells, it was possible to see through even a powerful glamour.

“Everything ok?” Pansy asked, looking at her with a worried expression. “Maybe we should have waited a bit longer to come here. I should have known it was bound to be a novelty.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s just a case of old habits die hard.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Finish your salad.” Hermione gave Pansy a reassuring smile and nodded to her plate. “How is it?”

Pansy shrugged. “A salad is a salad, to be honest. But the chicken is nice and tender, and the bacon is crunchy but not rock hard, so overall I’d give it a seven out of ten.”

“A whole seven! That’s high praise coming from you.”

“Are you saying I’m picky?”

Hermione snorted. “Love, if pickiness was a competitive sport, you would win by a wide margin.”

“Of course I would,” Pansy grinned. 

Half an hour later, they’d finished their meals, paid, and were strolling through the streets of Diagon Alley arm in arm. The two were bundled up against the cold, with their cloaks pulled tightly around their bodies and their hoods up. Neither of them noticed the nondescript man who had followed them out of the cafe and was trailing them down the street, so they were none the wiser when he ducked into an alleyway. Moments later, a small, silvery snake appeared at the entrance and paused for a beat, before weaving between the legs of shoppers and disappearing.

* * *

The two women left Flourish and Blotts with their arms full of packages. 

"Morgana's saggy tit, how can you buy so many books? They’re not all even _gifts,_ half of them are for you! We’re going to need a bigger flat to make room for all-”

Pansy and Hermione were knocked off their feet by a sudden blast of spellfire that came from several different directions at once. 

“Die, you Mudblood bitch!” someone screamed in triumph.

Pansy tried to get up, to reach Hermione. Her ears were ringing and her vision blurred. They were surrounded by smoke, dust and the rubble of a building that must have been struck when the attack happened. Looking around blearily, trying to focus, she finally spotted a prone form sprawled a few metres away from her. The figure didn’t move. Forcing herself up on her arms, Pansy saw that the person had brown curly hair. The glamour had worn off following the attack. Of course it had; one couldn’t maintain the spells when under duress.

Forcing her body to move, Pansy dragged herself to her feet and stumbled the short distance to where Hermione lay. She fell to her knees, turned her lover over, and shook her in a vain attempt to get her to respond, but it was hopeless. She tried to find a pulse, having lost her wand in the confusion, then dropped her head to Hermione’s chest, desperately listening for the sound of a heartbeat. But there was nothing.

“Wake up! _Wake up!_ ‘Mione, _please_ wake up!” But Hermione did not. Dimly, Pansy could hear someone screaming, the type of agonising, haunting, throat-tearing scream that accompanied the deepest level of grief.

It wasn’t until much later that Pansy realised the person who was screaming that day had been her.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Ten months later_ **

“I’ve found them all, love. All seven that were there, plus another six who weren’t present but were part of the group. Thirteen in all. Lucky thirteen.” 

Pansy laughed; the sound was harsh and strange in the silence. But they were alone together, so there was no one else to register how unhinged she sounded. The months following Hermione’s death had taken their toll on Pansy’s state of mind. The desire for revenge had become all-consuming. She had been so focused on discovering the identities of the murderers that she had thought of nothing else. 

“I never knew dark wizards could conjure a Patronus. I always assumed that only good people were capable of such a spell. But I guess they're just as capable of happy thoughts as anyone else, even if those happy thoughts would be considered vile and repellent to a normal person.”

Pansy touched a hand to her pocket, reassuring herself that what she needed was still there. 

“They’ll all pay for what they did to us. I swear it on my life.” She stopped and listened. “Are you sure you want to know? Some of my methods — well, actually, most of them — weren’t strictly legal. But they were nevertheless effective.”

She remained where she was for a long time, simply wanting to be close to Hermione, to talk to her, even if Hermione wasn’t capable of talking back. Finally, however, she prepared to leave. She needed to get started on her task, and she didn’t have much time to complete it.

“They’ll all be dead by Christmas. It’s my final gift to you. Goodbye, Hermione. I love you.” 

Pansy conjured a single white rose, kissed the headstone, and laid the bloom atop it. Wiping away a few stray tears, she brushed the snow from her cloak, and left the cemetery. As she closed the entry gate, she sang softly to herself. 

_ “She’s making a list, and checking it twice, she’s gonna find out who’s naughty and nice…” _

* * *

A rogue group of Voldemort supporters had committed the attack that had taken Hermione’s life. They hadn’t been Marked, weren’t even within the dark wizard’s wider circle, but they had operated as part of an underground faction that had provided resources for the cause, carried out attacks on Muggle populations, and generally caused mayhem.

The group had remained sufficiently under the radar to escape notice; although, given the Ministry's incompetence and the complete disarray following the war, it was unsurprising that not all of Voldemort’s supporters had been discovered and apprehended.

It was one of the members of the group who had spied Pansy and Hermione in the caf é . He was a paranoid individual, convinced Aurors were hiding around every corner to apprehend him. He made regular use of powerful charms that would reveal any glamours being used in the area he cast it. Normally, it was a means of retaining the upper hand, but on that occasion, he had been shocked and excited to discover that the Mudblood, the one who had helped Potter defeat the Dark Lord and who dared think to rise above her station in the wizarding world, was sitting in the caf é , along with that blood traitor, Pansy Parkinson.

He had observed the women as they finished their lunch and left the establishment, then cautiously followed them as they wandered through Diagon Alley. Once he had seen they were headed for Flourish and Blotts, he’d ducked into an alleyway to send a Patronus to his fellows, letting them know a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had presented itself, and anyone who wished to strike should come immediately. 

Six of them had joined him; the others had been unable to get away. In the confusion that immediately followed, each of those involved had escaped to various safe locations. None of the witnesses had time to properly identify them - it was so sudden and unexpected; and of course, they used hoods and glamours.

After months of investigating leads that went nowhere, the DMLE was forced to close the case as an unsolved murder. To Pansy, however, that wasn’t acceptable. She was not going to stand for that. She would get justice for Hermione if it was the last thing she did. Her hands weren’t tied by rules and regulations. She could use techniques that the Aurors were not allowed to use, a few of which were obscure enough to only be known by the oldest and most powerful wizarding families. Painstakingly, she gradually gathered the information the DMLE had been unable to collect, tracking down every one of those who had played a role in ending Hermione’s life.

She knew where each of them were, but they were all oblivious. None of them would see her coming, as she sought her own justice where the Ministry had failed. The second pivotal moment of her life was at hand.

* * *

She started with the ones who weren’t there that day, having decided she would work her way up, leaving the person who had instigated the attack for last. Pansy wanted him to know someone was coming for him, so he would spend his last living moments gibbering in terror, waiting for the retaliation that would eventually come.

Her first target was a woman who worked at the Ministry as an aide to one of the departments. She couldn’t recall which office; that wasn’t important. Pansy was waiting, glamoured, when the woman arrived home. Breaching the wards had been easy. With such lazy security, the bitch was practically  _ inviting  _ trouble. And now, it had found her.

The woman entered her front door, sensing nothing amiss, and dumped her bag on a small table in the entranceway before heading to her kitchen and taking a bottle of wine from the fridge. She didn’t notice Pansy standing in the corner of the room. The fool. Hermione would have been disgusted by her complete lack of awareness.

“My love was fond of wine.”

The woman shrieked and dropped the bottle. It fell to the floor and shattered. Wine and glass sprayed everywhere, but neither Pansy nor the woman paid any mind to the mess.

“Who—who are you? What do you want?” the woman demanded, her voice shaking.

“Revenge.”

Pansy summoned the woman’s wand from its holster on her arm.  _ How  _ had the fool ever fancied herself a Voldemort supporter? She didn’t have the battle skills to respond to an intruder, hadn't even tried to reach for the one thing she could use to respond to Pansy’s challenge!

It was of no consequence, however. Pansy would still have had the upper hand. Now the woman was unarmed and at Pansy’s mercy. 

“I didn’t do anything to you!” the woman sobbed, tears now falling down her face. “I don’t even know who you are!”

“Oh, but you  _ do.”  _ Pansy removed her glamour and the woman gasped. 

“Parkinson! You blood traitor bitch!”

“I don’t give a shit what you think of me. But I do give a shit about what you did to Hermione. You killed her, and you’ll pay. You’ll all pay.” She lifted the stolen wand.  _ “Crucio.” _

An hour later, it was done. Strong silencing charms had prevented the woman’s agonised screams from being heard. Frankly, Pansy was a bit disappointed at how quickly her first target had slipped beyond the veil. She would have to pace herself more carefully with the next one. 

She used a spell of her own creation to tidy up the scene when she finished, one that had been inspired by Hermione’s love of Muggle crime TV shows and movies where the protagonists always used forensics to help them catch the criminals. While she had been careful, the spell would ensure that any traces she may have left behind were erased from the scene.

She left one clue to alert her other targets, although she was confident the Aurors would not be able to interpret it. She had written it on the wall, in the woman’s blood.

_ You better watch out. One down. Twelve to go. _

* * *

Pansy took her time as she made her way through the names, steadily building the tension the others surely felt. After the first kill, the Aurors had tried to keep the murder quiet, as it had been kept out of the  _ Daily Prophet.  _

She would rectify that problem. After the second kill, she took a photograph of the grisly scene, making sure to clearly capture the message, and sent it to the  _ Prophet _ herself.

_ I’m telling you why. Two down. Eleven to go. _

The next day, the  _ Prophet  _ ran a full front-page issue using the image she’d anonymously provided. She had neglected to provide any other information, so the article was awash with speculation and questions.  _ Who was the victim? Why were they killed? Clearly, there was another victim - why didn’t the Auror department announce the first death? And who were the next victims on the killer’s list? _

The DMLE was scrambling, attempting to control the damage, which made it easy for her to take down her third target. Once again, she sent a photo to the  _ Prophet _ to ensure it was seen _.  _ More exposure would make the rest of them even more fearful.

Pansy waited until she had executed the fourth, fifth and sixth kills before sending more images to the  _ Prophet _ . After all, creating a pattern would put her at bigger risk of being caught.

The remaining members of the group were beginning to go to great lengths to protect themselves, which made the hunt far more entertaining. Of course, there was nowhere they could hide that would prevent her from finding them, thanks to the tracking charms they all unknowingly had on their person -- another spell inspired by the Muggle crime shows Hermione had loved. Even a Fidelius charm couldn’t conceal them.

By the middle of December, she only had four targets to go, but time was running out. She needed to act quickly.

She found targets ten, eleven and twelve holed up together, thinking that strength in numbers might be their saving grace. 

Fools. There was nothing that could stop her. She was a Parkinson, after all. A member of the Sacred Twenty Eight. None of these scumbags came from powerful or ancient houses, and none had been brave enough to actually fight for the Dark when they had had the chance, and so were no match for her knowledge of dark magic and powerful spells.

She cast a spell to carefully examine the area around the outer wards, as she did prior to each approach, looking for hidden traps, alarms, or anything else that might prove an obstacle. A dozen red dots appeared around the perimeter, scattered at random outside the currently hidden property. Pansy cast a second spell and smirked. Curses, designed to explode outwards if anyone wandered into proximity -- the wizarding equivalent of Muggle land mines. Using the data, she was easily able to avoid them and reach the wards.

Admittedly, breaking through their wards took a lot longer than usual, particularly because she didn’t want to give them advance warning, and they seemed strong -- perhaps the result of multiple people casting. She had to be careful so they wouldn’t sense her presence and flee, or worse, go on the offensive and come for her before she was ready to take them on. Finally, she had dismantled the last of their protections and gained access to the house.

Before entering, she cast  _ Homenum Revelio _ to confirm the number of people inside the building. She was concerned the three targets might have invited some friends along, but it seemed they were the only ones there.  _ Perfect.  _

Casting disillusionment and featherlight spells over herself, Pansy made her way through the house towards the soon-to-be-dead, bigoted murderers.

As she drew closer, she could hear them talking in low, urgent voices, and stopped to listen.

“I’m telling you, we  _ need  _ to check the wards!”

“The wards are fine! If there was a problem, we’d know about it.”

“That’s no guarantee! Wards can be broken!”

One of them scoffed. “All three of us put our magic into reinforcing them. No single person could get through without alerting us.”

“But something doesn’t feel right!”

“You’re just paranoid. Shut up, you’re doing my head in.”

“Yeah, give it a rest, already.”

The first one spoke up again, his voice a knife edge. “In case you idiots haven’t realised it, someone’s picking us all off! I may be paranoid, but under the circumstances, it’s perfectly reasonable!”

“Well,  _ you  _ go check the wards if you’re that worried. I’m not budging.”

“Neither am I.”

“Fine, I’ll go. But you’re both cowards.”

Pansy pressed herself against the wall as she heard one of them coming towards the entrance. Her mind was running through the different ways she could get him far enough away from the others to get to work, when another idea popped into her head. She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the dark laugh that threatened to burst forth. It was  _ perfect.  _

She waited for him to walk past her, then began to follow him stealthily. Once she was far enough away from the room they had all been sequestered in, she silently disarmed him. He spun, his mouth opened to shout out in alarm, but before he had time to utter so much as a sound, she had cast the spell, taking the risk of using her own wand to do it.

_ “Imperio.” _

After she had issued her command, she gave him back his wand, sent him on his way, and trailed him back to the room to watch the fun. It would be harder to conceal her magical signature, given she’d used one of the unforgivables, but her task was nearly complete, and soon, it wouldn’t matter.

The show was truly something to behold. Under the power of her curse, the man brutally attacked his two associates. He’d actually managed to kill one, before the third delivered a killing strike of his own by way of an  _ Avada.  _

_ How glorious.  _ The dark magic of the killing curse would help muddy the residue of the  _ Imperio,  _ and with it, her magical signature, making it much like a smudged fingerprint, a clue, but one of little use.

The final man cast his eyes wildly about, his arm moving jerkily from one corner of the room to another, his breathing heavy and panicked. She canceled the spells concealing her presence and stepped into view. 

“Why, hello there.”

He whipped his wand in her direction, but Pansy was quicker, and disarmed him before he could so much as blink.

She paced in front of him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of- of course I do.” He swallowed and took several steps back. “You’re Pansy Parkinson.”

“And why do you think I’m here?”

“To kill me, I suppose.”

“Give the man a Galleon.” Her answering smirk was cold. “Do you know  _ why  _ you and your friends all have to die?”

The man glared at her, suddenly defiant. “You were there that day. With the Mudblood.”

_ “Crucio!”  _

The man fell to the floor, writhing and screaming in agony. Pansy put all of her hate and pain into the curse. A foul stench suddenly filled the room as his bowels loosened.

“Hermione was no  _ Mudblood!”  _ she screamed. “I loved her, and you  _ murdered  _ her! Snuck up on her without warning, seven of you. Cowards! Filthy, low-down  _ bastards!”  _

Steeling herself, Pansy cast  _ Crucio  _ again, holding it until she felt the very air crackle with the unstable force of her magic.

It was then she realised he was dead; probably had been for several minutes. With a slicing hex, she opened his throat and used his blood to paint her message on the wall. For her final touch, she arranged the bodies in a neat row beneath the words she had written.

_ I know if you’ve been bad or good. Twelve down, one to go. _

* * *

Cleaning up afterwards had been difficult. Although she had no regrets whatsoever about how she had executed her revenge on those three, she had taken a bigger risk by using her own wand on the surviving target.

The photo to the  _ Prophet  _ caused quite a stir, because for the first time, she had chosen to include additional information. It was just a few words, typed onto the back of the image using a Muggle typewriter, but it was enough to create the frenzy she wanted. 

_ All will be revealed soon. _

Both the newspaper and members of the public speculated wildly about this new tidbit. Clearly, those murdered had been targeted for a reason -- that much had always been clear. But finally, it seemed those unanswered questions might be addressed. What had they done? Who had they wronged? How were they connected? Was the killer a deranged psychopath, or a righteous angel of justice?

At some point, someone had figured out the warnings she left with the bodies were quoting lines from the Muggle Christmas carol,  _ Santa Claus is Coming to Town,  _ and dubbed her The Yuletide Killer. She didn’t particularly like the name - she thought it was rather clich é  \- but the song was always one of Hermione’s favourites from her childhood, and so Pansy saw her messages as poetic justice.

Now, she had to move quickly to take down the man who had instigated Hermione’s death. The Aurors might have gathered evidence, no matter how thin, that would close the gap and point to her final target. She would finish the job, and then disappear - move abroad. She thought she might go to Italy, to visit Blaise and Theo for a while. 

Several days before Christmas Eve, she arrived on the outskirts of the place he was hiding and cast her usual diagnostic and revealing spells. The house was heavily warded, so much so that it would be a challenge even for her. The wards were far more powerful even than what the previous three targets had managed to produce. In addition, the thick layers of magic meant she was unable to detect how many people might be within the building. Sighing, Pansy decided to temporarily retreat. As much as she loathed to admit it, she would need help to complete this final task.

* * *

“Pansy. It’s good to see you again. I haven't heard from you in awhile.” 

“Hello, Draco.”

Her former classmate frowned. “You contact me for the first time in ages, asking me to meet you saying it’s urgent, and all you have to say is, ‘hello, Draco’?”

She sighed, her hands squeezing the glass of firewhisky in front of her. She’d asked him to meet her at a little-known wizarding pub in Wiltshire, near Malfoy Manor. It was one Draco, Pansy and their friends used to sneak off to in their holidays, because the owner knew the Malfoy family well and would serve them alcoholic drinks, even though they were underage.

“I need your help.”

Draco raised an eyebrow expectantly and sipped on his own drink, waiting for her to continue.

“I need to break through some wards and I can’t do it on my own.”

“I would ask why, and whose, but I suspect you won’t divulge those two pieces of information.”

“No, I won’t. It would implicate you in what I need to do.”

He snorted. “Pansy, having me help you dismantle the wards would implicate me in whatever it is.”

_ “Please,  _ Draco. You’re the best curse breaker and wardsman in England. If anyone can help me get through these, it’s you."

“Come on. You know I would always agree to help you.” He smirked. “Especially when you flatter by highlighting my brilliance.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and huffed. “I had to do  _ something  _ to catch your interest.”

“Snake. Now, tell me everything you know about these wards and what they’re protecting.”


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas Eve found Pansy and Draco standing outside the ward perimeter, with Draco running diagnostic spells to assess the complex web that was preventing Pansy from completing her mission.

“Well? What’s your verdict?”

“They’re strong. Whoever constructed them has extensive experience with building powerful wards. If this is the person you’re going after, I don’t know if you should be taking them on alone.”

“I _ have  _ to do this alone, Draco! Besides, I don’t even know if these were constructed by the one I’m looking for,” Pansy replied with a frown. She had been assessing the magical signature woven into the protections, and she was convinced that they hadn’t been built by the man who signed Hermione’s death warrant by alerting his friends.

“Well, I can get through them undetected, but it will take some time.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Draco shook his head. “It’s best if you let me dismantle them on my own. I’ll need to concentrate, and it will be dangerous. I can’t risk any mistakes, and having you trying to help will be a distraction.”

Pansy nodded, biting back her frustration. She’d wanted to do this without resorting to any kind of assistance, even if it came from one of the few people she truly cared about and trusted. Anything less made her feel like she was weak; like she couldn’t avenge Hermione properly. Standing, she moved back into the darkness, so as not to disturb Draco while he worked, and began to pace.

Finally, after nearly two hours of tension, Draco softly called her name. Pansy approached, her heart beating with anticipation. He cast a series of diagnostic spells to detect traps and assess how many people were in the now-revealed building, a large but tumbledown manor that looked as if it had seen little use in recent years.

As she’d suspected, her target was well protected. She had no idea who the half a dozen other people were, but they moved around the perimeter of the house and the interior with disciplined efficiency.

“Aurors?” Draco theorised.

“It’s possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. The person I’m after - he’s not the type to welcome the attention of law enforcement.” 

She went back to studying the small map, trying to think of the best tactical approach. It would not be impossible to take down the guards, but it would not be an easy task, either.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Pansy turned her head to regard Draco with cool detachment. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please,” he snorted. “Don’t give me that bullshit façade. You’re the Yuletide Killer.”

She remained silent, knowing it was useless to deny it, and yet refusing to come out and admit he’d worked it out. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. Draco had always been smart. As smart as Hermione. 

_ Gods,  _ how she missed Hermione. Pansy bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to break down. She couldn’t afford to lose it now, not when she was so close. Her shoulders shook with the effort, and she squeezed her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms.

“They did it, didn’t they? This one in there-” he gestured towards the building “-and the others. They killed Hermione.”

“That one called the others,” Pansy said quietly. “It’s why I left him for last. Six joined him; the other six couldn’t get there following the summons. It made no difference to me whether they were there or not. Every one of them bore the weight of her death, so they all deserved what they got. They were an underground faction who supported Voldemort, but they stayed on the sidelines both during and after the war.”

“That was the connection.”

She nodded.

“They managed to avoid being discovered by the Ministry all this time?”

“Come on, Draco,” she replied, her tone laced with resentment. It shouldn’t have been so difficult. After all, she’d managed it, but that was a moot point. “The Ministry was hopeless during the war, and they’ve been hopeless after. This group was careful to avoid having any identifiable connections to one another, and they kept their heads down, working deep underground and not calling attention to themselves. It would have been easy for them to go unnoticed.”

“You’re right, of course.” He stood and held out his hand to help her up. “Let’s get started.”

Her eyes widened in understanding. “No! Draco, I can’t ask you to do this! The risk-”

“-Is high, especially for you. You’re well outnumbered; you don’t know their strength or abilities or who they are. At least I can help you thin out their numbers, so you can finish what you came to do.”

Pansy warred with herself for a few moments. She knew he was right, but her pride still told her she should do this on her own. In the end, though, she had no choice but to accept Draco’s offer. She couldn't risk failure. She’d made a promise to Hermione.

“All right. Thank you.”

Draco didn’t acknowledge her thanks; instead he turned back to the map and rotated it.

“Right, here’s the plan. Listen carefully...” He began to outline how they would attack.

* * *

The two of them moved like a well-oiled unit, each of them confident in the plan Draco had designed. Together, they quickly and silently eliminated the three men patrolling the grounds, then examined the bodies. 

“It seems like they were privately hired, most likely from outside of England,” Draco theorised. “They’re probably all from the same place.” 

He pulled up the map again to check the location of the people inside. They were spread out, which was both an advantage and disadvantage. 

“What does the target look like?”

Pansy described the man. “But, he might not look like himself,” she added. “There’s a chance he could be using glamours or other enchantments. According to my intel, he’s particularly paranoid.”

“Then we’ll just have to stun all the ones inside and bring them together. Then you can use whatever methods you deem necessary to identify him.”

She smiled; it was a predatory smile. Her heart sped up, ready for the thrill of the hunt and eventual kill. 

“Agreed. Let’s go.”

They elected to stay together while hunting down the last few. They worked efficiently, silently stunning and binding each of the remaining four men, then transported them to the drawing room with featherlight charms.

Once they were all lined up, Pansy examined their features carefully. 

“Just as I suspected - he must be using glamours.”

“What if he’s not here at all?” Draco worried. “What if it was all a ruse to lure you here?”

“Impossible,” she declared. “There’s no way he would be able to remove the tracking charm I used.” Pansy cast the spell, and a pale glow immediately appeared around one of the men in the centre. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

She approached the man and rolled him onto his stomach, then pulled the collar of his shirt down to expose the nape of his neck. A small mark was present on the man’s skin, and she stepped back so Draco could lean in to examine it.

“Is it- Roman numerals? Thirteen.”

“Yes. Lucky number thirteen. I built the tracking charm into the tattoo. Perfectly hidden. None of them even knew it was there.”

“But how?”

“The less you know about my methods, the better.”

Draco nodded slowly. “All right. Now what?”

“Now, you should leave. I’m grateful for your help in getting this far, but you’ve done enough already.”

“Don’t be stupid, Pansy. I’m not leaving you alone now, not when I’ve come this far. So I’ll ask again -- now what?”

“We wake them all up, of course.” She pointed her wand at each of them in turn, no longer as concerned with concealing her magic.  _ “Rennerverate.”  _

They all began to stir; blinking and muttering. As the men realised they were bound, they began to struggle and shout.

The one in the middle, the target, looked over at Pansy and frowned in confusion. Then he noticed Draco standing beside her and went pale. “M- Malfoy… it was  _ you?” _

“Actually, it was me.”

The man turned back to Pansy with an expression of disbelief. “No  _ woman  _ could manage to eliminate all of us with such brutal efficiency,” he scoffed.

“That’s what you think.” She lazily turned her wand towards one of the men who had been guarding him.  _ Sectumsempra.”  _

The remaining three stared in horror as her victim quickly bled out. Beside her, Draco had turned away in disgust. 

“Did you  _ have  _ to use that particular spell in front of me?” He muttered.

“Oh, right. I forgot. Sorry.”

“Squeamish are we, Malfoy?” the man observed, mockingly. 

“Considering it nearly killed me, I feel my reaction is entirely justified. Unlike your friend there, however, someone performed the countercurse before I was exsanguinated,” Draco replied, looking down his nose at the soon-to-be-dead Voldemort supporter.

“I’m going to dispatch your remaining friends with equal mercy. You, however, won’t be so lucky. You killed Hermione. You murdered my love. You’ll scream, you’ll  _ beg  _ for death. Eventually, I’ll grant it to you.”

She used an  _ Avada _ to take care of each of the two guards then turned to Draco. “You might want to step back. Blood can splash over a surprisingly long distance, and I wouldn’t want you to ruin your clothing.”

Draco nodded and did as she had advised. 

Straightening her shoulders, she advanced on the man with her wand raised. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Hours later, he had been reduced to an incoherent, babbling mess. He had promised her anything she wanted. He had pleaded to be allowed to go free, which made her laugh so hard she was momentarily winded. When neither of those worked, and Pansy’s hand had become more firm, he had indeed begged for her to have mercy and end his life.

After so much practice with the others, she’d become rather skilled at prolonging their lives, at preventing the thin thread that tethered them to this world from snapping. She didn’t think the man knew where, or even  _ who,  _ he was any longer, but still, she wanted to prolong his agony for as long as possible.

“Pansy. I think he’s suffered enough, don’t you?” 

She whirled, a curse on her tongue, ready to tell Draco he would  _ never _ suffer enough. But Draco hadn’t spoken .

There was another presence in the room, one that was more… ethereal.

“...Hermione?” 

“Yes. You’ve been busy, love.”

Pansy laughed shakily, tears threatening to fall as she turned to face the ghostly apparition standing before her. “I have. But my work is almost done.”

“How much longer do you plan to go on torturing him?”

She shrugged. “Until I’m too drained to continue, I suppose.”

“But that won’t bring me back. None of this will. You know that. It’s time to end this.” Hermione’s ghost gave her that look; the one that booked no disagreement.

“But, once he’s gone, what will- I’ll-”

“-have no purpose any longer?”

“Yes.” Pansy hung her head. Hermione had summed it up perfectly, as usual.

“That’s the problem with revenge. It never really fills the hole, not completely. It feels good at the time, and may be entirely justified, but it won’t end your pain or grief.”

The dam Pansy had been trying to hold back finally burst. Sobs wracked her body as she dropped to the floor. 

“I miss you so much!” she wailed. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

“I miss you too, love. But I don’t want you to stagnate under a metaphorical stasis charm, either. Mourn me, hold a place for me in your heart, but keep living your life.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You need to try _.  _ Holding on to the past only causes more pain.”

Pansy knew Hermione was right, but she had no idea how she could possibly begin to move forward. She wasn’t sure if she would even be able to. She had left far too much of her magical signature behind tonight. It would be clear that she had done this -- done all of it. Even if she left the country as she’d been planning, the Ministry would try and find her. 

She knew that she would be safe in Italy; between the lack of extradition agreements between the British and Italian Ministries and Blaise’s connections, they would not be able to force her back to stand trial. Even so, there was a good chance she would never be able to return to England. She wasn’t sure she’d want to, but at the same time, she didn’t want to have the choice taken from her.

“Fiendfyre.”

She looked up at Hermione, frowning in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Use Fiendfyre. Reduce the property and everything within it to ash. It will erase all traces of your magical signature. I trust you remember the countercurse to stop it?”

_ Why didn’t I think of that?  _ Pansy shook her head wryly. “Ever the clever one. I still say you should have been sorted into Slytherin.” Her eyes widened. “How did you-?”

“I could sense your worry. Ghost thing.” Hermione shrugged; as much as a ghost  _ could  _ shrug. She turned and pointed to the semi-conscious man who was responsible for her death. “He’s almost dead anyway; but I think it’s about time you finished this.”

“As you wish.” Pansy gave Hermione a small smile, then, still sitting on the floor, aimed her wand at her final victim.  _ “Diffindo.”  _ The spell opened up his throat, and she used the blood to write her final message on the wall. 

_ Made a list, checked it twice; they were all naughty and none were nice. Lucky number thirteen has been neutralised. _

Hermione’s ghost huffed. “Is that really necessary?”

Pansy, stood, took out her camera and snapped a picture. “Yes. I promised the _Prophet_ and its readers some answers, and I intend to deliver on that promise. The world needs to know about what these people did and what they stood for.”

“And how do you intend to do that, exactly?”

“Oh, I wrote a little dossier on each of them. Now everyone will know their secrets, and it will taint their names forever. I’m going to send it along with the photo, then disappear for a while.”

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted their discussion and Pansy turned around in surprise, having completely forgotten Draco was there. “If you’re going to do as she suggests-” He nodded towards Hermione’s spectral figure “-you’d better do it soon. We’ve been here far longer than ideal.”

“He’s right. You need to burn it all down and get as far away as possible,” Hermione agreed, her tone bossy, even in the afterlife. “Malfoy, maybe you should consider going on a business trip or visiting abroad, yourself. Just to be cautious.”

“Funny, I was just thinking about visiting some relatives in France,” Draco said with a wink.

“I need to go,” Hermione said.

“No, please don’t go, not yet,” Pansy begged.

“I can’t stay forever. You know that. But even if you can’t see me, I’m still close by. You’ll always be able to feel me.”

“I love you,” Pansy whispered, as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I love you, too.” Hermione seemed to weep herself, although her tears had no more substance than the rest of her. “Thank you for avenging my death. Goodbye, Pansy.”

“Goodbye, Hermione.”

Pansy continued to weep softly as Hermione faded into nothingness, her arms wrapped tightly around her body as she mourned. She stayed that way until Draco’s gentle hands on her shoulders encouraged her to look up. 

“It’s time to go,” he said softly, using his thumbs to wipe the wetness on her cheeks. 

“Yes.” Pansy allowed Draco to lead her from the house, and together, they walked back to the edge of the property. 

“Do you have enough strength left?” Draco asked.

In response, Pansy lifted her wand, squared her shoulders, and spoke the incantation to summon the Fiendfyre. Cursed fire burst forth from her wand and hurtled towards the house. While it was difficult to maintain control, she was able to direct the flames to seek out and swallow first the bodies outside, and then the house itself. The creatures that lived inside the inferno roared, hissed and howled as they morphed from one monstrous spectre to another.

Finally, she sent cleansing fire around the perimeter to expunge any remaining magical traces from the property. With a last burst of effort, she cast the countercurse to cancel the flames. They fought her every step of the way, enraged at being banished, but Pansy’s will was stronger, and finally the Fiendfyre succumbed. The flames dwindled away to nothing, leaving only smoke and cinders in their wake.

* * *

**_Six months later_ **

A knock on her door roused Pansy from the half-doze she had succumbed to earlier. The hazy Italian summer heat often put her to sleep in the early afternoons, and she’d quickly fallen into the local habit of snoozing through the hottest part of the day.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Blaise stepped through, smiling and holding a bottle of wine. “The latest shipment has arrived from my family’s estate. Care for a taste?”

“Of course. Just let me freshen up and I’ll be right out.”

Blaise nodded and withdrew, leaving her alone. Pansy rose from her bed and padded into the ensuite attached to the room. She ran cold water at the sink and splashed the liquid over her face, the shock of the cooler temperature chasing away the last vestiges of drowsiness. After drying her skin, she returned to the bedroom and sat down at her vanity to brush her hair.

“I’m quite envious of you, you know.”

She turned to face the voice, a small, sad smile on her lips. “I wish you could be here properly. I know I say it every day, but It’s as true now as it was the day you came back to me.”

Hermione’s portrait smiled back at her. Her eyes seemed to twinkle, though that wasn’t really possible. 

“You’ll just have to settle for this version,” she said.

The exchange was a common one between them. Not long after Pansy arrived in Italy, a package was delivered for her. At first, it had been a source of worry. She assumed that someone had figured out that she was responsible for the murders and meant to use the information against her.

_ After casting a number of spells over the package, she hadn’t discovered anything of concern, but still, it was with some trepidation that she unwrapped it. _

_ The scream of shock that escaped her when she was met with Hermione’s smiling face and her greeting of, “Hello, love,” echoed through the villa. Blaise and Theo burst into her room moments later, wands aloft, ready to take on whatever threat had just appeared. _

_ The two men quickly dissolved into laughter and cheers as they realised what had caused Pansy’s reaction, then hurried to comfort the distraught witch as she sobbed uncontrollably. _

_ “Stop weeping all over me, would you love?” Hermione’s portrait said good-naturedly. “The paint has some protection against water, but I’m afraid you might make my colours run if you keep that up, and I’m not really a fan of impressionist art.” _

_ The remark made Pansy laugh through her tears as she did her best to get herself under control. _

_ “How?” she asked, once she could speak. _

_ “A connection in the Ministry. I thought it was a bit ostentatious to have a portrait of myself commissioned, but Snape’s portrait convinced me.” _

_ “Snape? You mean the Snape who was horrid to you all through school?” Pansy asked. _

_ “Yes, that Snape. I was visiting Minerva not long after we graduated, and had a chance to chat with the previous headmasters while she stepped out to tend to an urgent matter. He noted that even though the war was over, I was probably still a target due to who I was, and argued that I should preserve some part of myself, in case I ever met an untimely end.” _

_ “Morbid old bastard,” said Blaise, who, along with Theo, had been staring at Hermione's portrait, dumbstruck.  _

_ “Well, he had a point,” Hermione’s portrait said. “But he had to insult me in order to convince me.” _

_ “Sounds about right,” Pansy snorted. “What did he say to you?” _

_ “He said I had achieved so much that I would be a fool not to do it. That my legacy needed to live on, and if I let some warped sense of humility prevent me from being painted, he was going to start telling everyone I was the stupidest witch of my age.” _

_ “Wanker,” Theo said. _

_ “That’s what I said,” Hermione said with a smirk. “Nevertheless, I quietly arranged to have the work done. Pansy, once I knew I wanted to be with you forever, I added a charm to it and embedded your magical signature. That way, if I did die, when the time was right, my painting would find its way to you.” _

_ “Thank you,” Pansy whispered, as more tears escaped. “You don’t know what this means to me.” _

_ “Of course I know, silly witch,” Hermione said with a wink. “Now, show me your room. I’d like some input as to where you hang me.” _

“You must describe that wine to me when you come back,” Hermione now implored. 

“Of course I will.” Pansy stood and walked over to the portrait. She lifted her fingers to her lips, kissed them softly, then pressed them to Hermione's face. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Pansy gave Hermione one last gentle smile, then turned and left her room, closing the door softly behind her.


End file.
